


Winter's Frost

by Antheas_Blackberry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Winter Mystrade Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3152798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A normal day for Gregory Lestrade ends up being nothing but.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CommunionNimrod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommunionNimrod/gifts).



The day began as it normally did for the pair, as routine as ever. Kisses were quickly exchanged as coffee was made and the conversation was light.

As they were leaving, Mycroft took a moment to caress Gregory’s cheek. “I should be home early this evening,” he said as he put on his cashmere lined leather gloves.

“So before ten?” Gregory teased, reaching over and kissing Mycroft’s cheek.

They both went their separate ways to work after another brief embrace.

 

 

\--------------  
Lestrade arrived home early for once. He changed and then grabbed a beer from the fridge and turned on the television, flicking through the channels at random. He finally settled on the news, but he was only half paying attention. He was thinking about the box hidden away in his dresser.

He wasn’t sure how long he was daydreaming, but something disturbed his reverie. He looked up and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, looking grim, and he felt his blood run cold in an instant.

Lestrade stood up quickly and crossed the room. The look on Sherlock’s face told him everything he needed to know; he grabbed his jacket and followed him to the door.

Since he had arrived home, a heavy frost had fallen, coating everything in a thick, glittering sheen. With careful steps, he strode to his car and opened the boot. He rooted about for a moment and then turned back to Sherlock who was waiting with the passenger door open. Gregory tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans and after taking a deep breath joined the younger Holmes in the car.

He followed the directions Sherlock gave; it seemed an eternity to cross the city, although it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes. During the drive, Sherlock told him what he needed to know; that Mycroft had been kidnapped, taken and that in the accident that had preceded it Anthea had been knocked unconscious briefly, but that she was ok and was coordinating the operation on the ground.

Lestrade didn’t really care; all he cared about was finding Mycroft. There was so much that hadn’t been said and done and he was going to make sure that no more time was wasted when they found him. He refused to think ‘if.’

They were in the East End now, an area known for gang violence and other unseemly activities. Tonight, it seemed quieter than usual, and Lestrade found it unnerving. Sherlock finally indicated he should stop, and he quickly parked outside what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

The building was dark and foreboding. Lestrade looked unsure but a brief nod over his head confirmed they were in the right place. Anthea had appeared out of the darkness. She looked a mixture of anxious and annoyed; there was a deep cut, thick with clotted blood on her forehead.

“This is the only door,” she confirmed quietly, mainly to Sherlock, her breath coming in cloudy white puffs in the cold.

Sherlock went to work picking the lock, barely even pausing to stifle a sneeze into the shoulder of his Belstaff.

“Bless you,” Lestrade murmured automatically, and finally took a good look at Sherlock. He looked paler than usual and there were dark circles under his eyes. Despite it not being the correct time or place, he was about to ask if he was ok, when the lock clicked and they were inside.

After a brief whispered discussion, the trio split up. All three were armed Lestrade noticed; Sherlock must have nicked John’s gun. Well, he wasn’t a DI right now. He wasn’t thinking as a policeman. He pulled his own revolver from the back of his jeans and moved silently down the corridor. 

The ground floor looked like it was laid out half office space and half warehouse. It was dark, but there was enough light to see from the glow of the streetlights shining in through the cracked windows. He was on the side that was made up of office space. The corridor had four doors, two on the right and two on the left. He approached the first door on the left cautiously, listening for any sound at all. He heard nothing.

Lestrade put a hand on the doorknob and turned; the door opened easily. He shined the penlight from his keychain in the room. A dusty desk stood in the centre, nothing more. He quickly moved out of the room and on to the next door. It was empty, as was the third room.

The fourth door opened into the warehouse. At the far end of the room there was the slumped form of a body. Lestrade gasped and broke into a run.

He reached Mycroft and pulled him into his arms, calling his name over and over. He was close to tears. Finally, Mycroft began to stir, moaning. 

“Love, are you ok? Can you move? Can you walk? We’ve got to get you out of here!” Lestrade jammed his gun into the back of his jeans and helped Mycroft get to his feet. He got Mycroft standing; one of Mycroft’s arms around his shoulders and his arm under one of Mycroft’s and they set off.

Just as they started to move towards the door, there was the sound of the cocking of a gun. Lestrade went to turn and then suddenly Anthea was screaming- “Down!” In an instant he pushed Mycroft to the ground, covering him with his body. 

Everything happened at once. There was a gunshot; he remembered later he could feel its heat as it passed him and then there was the smell of cordite and blood.

Seconds later, although it felt an eternity, Anthea and Sherlock were pulling them both to their feet and all but dragged them to the door.

Sherlock was yelling at him for his keys, and somehow he managed to get them out of his pocket. Lestrade was trying to get a look at Mycroft, to see if he was hurt, but the younger Holmes and Anthea were hurrying them along too quickly for him to get a read on anything.

Before he knew it, he and Mycroft were shoved in the backseat of his car and Sherlock was driving them away. Lestrade opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on.

“Shut up, Gavin,” Sherlock said before he could get a word out.

Lestrade shook his head and faced Mycroft. He began to run his hands all over his body, checking for blood and injury. 

Mycroft finally had shaken off the dazedness that can follow being knocked unconscious. “Gregory, I am not injured. A slight concussion perhaps, but they did not harm me. They did not get the chance,” he said, taking Gregory’s hands in his. 

Sherlock made a sound of derision, but they both ignored him as Gregory pulled Mycroft into his arms and held on to him tightly as they sped thorough the city of London.

 

 

\------------  
Lestrade didn’t remember much of the ride home, just that he was relieved that Mycroft was safe and uninjured. Once they were inside, he wordlessly led Mycroft to their bedroom where he carefully removed his now ruined beyond repair wool suit. He catalogued all of Mycroft’s minor injuries; a few scrapes and bruises- the suit bore the brunt of the damage, he noted. Lestrade then led Mycroft into their ensuite bathroom and filled the bathtub within.

Once the tub was filled halfway, Mycroft eased himself into the tub and closed his eyes relishing the warmth. Lestrade watched this with a fond smile on his face, and left for a moment.

When he returned the bathtub was filled and Mycroft had added a measure of bubbles. Gregory placed two glasses of Scotch down next to the tub and quickly shed his clothing. He slipped into the hot water behind Mycroft, letting the warmth of the water and the presence of his partner soothe him. 

Their hands found each other in the water and they intertwined their fingers. Gregory pressed a kiss into the back of Mycroft’s neck and he was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. They stayed that way, close to one another in silence until the water became cool.

Relief turned to passion and their touches became heated. Mycroft turned so he could face his lover, gently took his face in his hands, and kissed him. Gregory pulled the chain and the water began to drain, but neither of them paid any heed to it. They rose from the bath and with a cursory use of a towel, made their way to bed.

Mycroft wasn’t one to be passive in the bedroom, but this evening he let himself be taken by Gregory. The silver haired man quickly prepared him and then entered him slowly but urgently, pouring all of his love into him. Mycroft closed his eyes and gave himself over to the love and passion, his fingers tight in Gregory’s hair when he finally came over the strong fingers of his lover.

 

 

 

\-------------  
When Gregory woke from his doze, he was unsure how much time had passed. He sat up, yawning, and ran a hand through his mussed hair. Mycroft was sitting up in bed, dressed in his robe. He was reading something on his new mobile, and there was a thick file beside him.

Looking up from his mobile, he smiled softly at Gregory. “You were only asleep for twenty minutes,” he said. 

Gregory nodded and gestured at the file. “Is that about . . ?” He asked, his voice trailing off.

“Yes. Do not trouble yourself thinking of it. It is being handled,” Mycroft said. He picked up the file and moved it and the mobile to the bedside table. 

“I’d like to handle them, whoever they are. To the grave,” he growled. He was still angry.

Mycroft reached over and took Gregory’s hand. “They will be dealt with accordingly.” 

Gregory ran his thumb across the top of Mycroft’s slender hand. “If anything had happened,” he began. He paused and looked away; his emotions were running high and he took a breath to compose himself.

Mycroft squeezed his hand. “Nothing happened and nothing will happen,” he stated, assuring Gregory as best as he could.

“There’s nothing more that can be done tonight,” Mycroft added. While he was unsure if either of them would sleep any more this evening, rest was probably the best thing for them both. He reached over and turned off the bedside light.

“Come here, my dearest heart,” Mycroft whispered. 

Gregory wrapped his arms around Mycroft, who then pulled the duvet up and over them both. He eventually fell asleep listening to the steady beat of Mycroft’s heart.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later- Christmas Eve

 

Things went back to normal rather quickly after the incident; that’s how Mycroft referred to it. He didn’t seem to be phased by it at all, (unless you count the overworking) while Gregory had suffered nightmares for the past two nights, waking in a cold sweat alone in their bed.

He was glad it was Christmas; Mycroft would have to stop working- if only for the dinner they had planned. Just the two of them, but it was what they both they decided they wanted this year. Tonight, he hoped for a quiet evening in front of the fire; maybe he would be able to convince the British government to watch Die Hard. He chuckled at the thought.

And then there was the question of the box he had hidden in the back of his sock drawer, the box that was now in the pocket of his jeans. He fidgeted with it, turning it over and over. He stared into the fire, hoping it would have the answers he needed until he heard the front door click open signalling that Mycroft was home.

A moment later, Mycroft entered the sitting room, his cheeks tinged pink from the cold outside. Gregory looked up and smiled. “Hi,” he said.

“Good evening, Gregory.” Mycroft studied him intently, and for once Gregory hoped that he couldn’t read him like an open book.

Mycroft poured himself a Scotch and joined Gregory on the couch. “Good day?” Gregory asked as he leaned over to kiss him on his still chilled cheek.

Sipping his drink, Mycroft nodded. “And you?” He asked, even though he didn’t need to.

“Yeah, it was alright. Glad I’ve got the next two days off though. It’ll be nice to sleep in, watch some telly, relax.” Gregory closed the distance between them, putting his arm around Mycroft.

Mycroft relaxed into the embrace. He also hoped that Gregory could relax; he knew that the events of the past few days had taken so much out of the older man, and he felt powerless to do anything about it. Emotions, while he was better at dealing with them now, were still difficult for him to navigate.

Gregory smiled as he watched Mycroft unwind from the day. It was like when he undressed him at night, peeling back the layers of wool and silk; he did the same thing when he came in from a long day, minute by minute he unwound and relaxed. He looked so gorgeous in the light of the fire, that Gregory decided now was the moment. It was now or never.

Gregory took one of Mycroft’s hands in his. “You know,” he began. “We never really talked about what happened. And to be honest, I don’t care about who or why. What I care about is that I almost lost you.” He paused a moment to control his emotions and took a deep breath.

“There were so many things that I realised I had never said or done, when I saw you lying there. So many things we hadn’t done together.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said.

“No love, let me finish, please,” Gregory said.

Mycroft nodded, and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

Gregory smiled. “I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect time. And the other night I realised that there is no such thing; that every moment we spend together is precious and perfect to me.” He stood up for a moment, but didn’t let go of Mycroft’s hand. 

Gregory then got down on one knee, and handed the red velvet box to Mycroft. “Mycroft Holmes, will you marry me?” 

Never in a million years did Mycroft expect this. He knew Gregory had been anxious, preoccupied, and worried, but he assumed that had to do with the kidnapping, not that he was going to propose. He didn’t feel worthy, in fact he felt woefully inadequate. And then he looked deep into Gregory’s soft brown eyes and saw the love there. He knew in an instant that was all that mattered.

“Yes,” he said quietly, reaching up to wipe the tears off of Gregory’s face with a trembling hand.

Gregory pulled Mycroft close and kissed him as if his life depended on it. When they finally broke apart, Mycroft opened the box, his eyes shining like a child’s on Christmas morning. It was a very, very old ring; a simple gold band, but one with plenty of history. “It was my grandfather’s,” Gregory finally said, his voice choked with emotion.

Mycroft nodded wordlessly, as Gregory slipped the band on his finger. He looked at the ring on his finger for a moment, and then pulled Gregory into a tight embrace and held him close.

“I love you Gregory. Merry Christmas,” he whispered.

“Merry Christmas, love.”


End file.
